


He Talks in His Sleep (Part IIII)

by knaval



Series: He Talks in His Sleep [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sleep Walking, Sleep talking, Sleepiness, Sleeping Together, Sleepovers, Sleeptalking, Sleepy Boys, Sleepy Cuddles, Sleepy Sex, Sleepy Stiles, eh, except for sleep sex, little bit of angst okay, sleep talk, sort of, that's literally every suggestion containing the word sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 10:19:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1301362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knaval/pseuds/knaval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>good stuff in this one, itty bitty twist </p><p>also derek's emotionally incompetent and stiles well yknow</p><p>two (maybe a surprise third) chapters to go!</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Talks in His Sleep (Part IIII)

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me, I’ve been reading Shakespeare again and that always tends to tip my writing
> 
> also note: it mentions stiles being half asleep: I couldn’t find a way to say that feeling when you are awake but you just woke up a second ago and you’re still so tired and dazed you might as well still be asleep
> 
> Forthethrill asked that "Stiles has a bad dream and Derek comforts him, a hug turning into something else"  
> this enough "something else"? : D

Derek only talks in his sleep. At least, that’s how it seems tonight. 

Stiles realizes how hard it is to start, much less have a conversation with Derek. He only realizes now how most of their conscious conversations start with Derek threatening him and Stiles responding from there. He doesn't even know how to talk normally to the guy. 

When Derek talks in his sleep, Stiles doesn’t try to hold a conversation with him because that wakes him up and makes things awkward. But he does slip a little closer, resting his head on Derek’s shoulder, and give little breaths tinted with a hint of voice, like a sigh or a moan to acknowledge he’s heard. Everything he’s not sure how to say fits into those little breaths, and Derek’s so much more of a conversationalist when he’s asleep. Funny how those sounds never wake him up.

But it all started about five minutes ago. Or several months ago when he started letting Derek use his bed. Or even a few years back when Derek glared at him in the woods. 

But the point is, Stiles doesn’t know when or how or why it began, he just knows he’s caught up in the middle of something he can’t manage to say, and something Derek can’t process except on a subconscious level. 

With the pillow barrier up, Stiles’ nightmares seem to occur more often, and more vivid. He doesn’t remember them being this horrible before Derek, (then again it may have been all the recent stress caused by various existence of supernatural creatures) but he’s not sure how he’s going to deal with them without him. Because somewhere he knows this won’t last forever. 

Many nights more he finds himself getting around or under or over the wall, curling up against and clinging to Derek when he wakes from bad dreams. Some nights he sits up in the dark and returns to his side, constructing the pillows again. Other nights he waits, clinging a little longer in the dark, listening to Derek’s breath and feeling the press of his ribcage against Stiles’ cheek, the gentle, automatic motions Derek vaguely makes whenever his hands are touching Stiles’ face or have ended tangled up in his hair. (Stiles may have been putting off cutting it because he liked the feeling so much, and did not want a reason to end it prematurely.) He waits, pretending he hasn’t awoken, until the night is only dark and the dreams only vaguely haunt him, and he’s not quite sure what worried him awake anyway.

He thought once, idly, to himself on the edge of sleep, where he cannot be accountable for his thoughts, that he might not have to be afraid of monsters in the closet and under his bed, had there been one curled up beside him. 

One night his dream seemed to hold onto him even as he woke – and Derek, he was awake, rousing him. Even with his eyes forced open in terror, all he saw was a great void, the shadows of his room no longer familiar and lazily waiting to trip him when he made his way around in the dark, but sinister and filled with ill intent. It touched everything, and there was no safety except under the covers. 

And beside him.

He could barely hear Derek growling for him to wake up, but he could feel his grip on his shoulder shaking him awake like an invitation of open arms, which he bodily dove into. Derek was so much safer than any blanket he could hide under and feebly grope for warmth. Stiles cleaved to him, and he could feel Derek’s arms around him. He barely realized how out of joint his breathing was, the sweat on his back or how violently he was shaking. He only noticed the tremors when he felt Derek pull him closer, as if holding him tight enough could still his shaking. 

His mind was blurry and his eyes were not adjusted to the dark, but gradually, he came aware of it all. At least, of Derek’s fingers, carding through his hair in slow, drawn out motions that matched his breath on Stiles’ neck, interrupted only as he hummed, “Shhhhhhhh,” a sound that dwindled out into comforting murmurs. Or the gentle movement of his thumb, back and forth in a calming way, until it fell lazily into relaxation.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Derek whispered to him, as Stiles buried his eyes against Derek’s shoulder. He did not have the words to tell him why it wasn’t okay, that there were many things, and they all were so terrible -- 

In a burst of motion his eyes were wet and he was biting down on Derek’s shoulder as easily as he would his own hand, to stop a sob from being wrenched from his throat. There was a slight delay in Derek’s motions, a pause in his breath where Stiles realized what he had done.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Derek repeated, biting back a croak of injury in his throat.

It was his first instinct to lick the bite. With his tongue he checked the bite; there was no blood, only tasting sweat and saliva and Derek, scraping his teeth gently along over the rapidly fading teeth marks. It did not heal right away, and Stiles could not fathom why Derek wouldn’t heal, but after persistently licking the wound he felt him give way and let it heal under his tongue while he mouthed at the spot until there was nothing left. 

He continued even after.

His tongue roamed an inch further at a time, taking in the taste of salty flesh, but his hands covered in all they could span, rolling into the sinew and feeling the firm shape in his hands much akin to how eyes greedily take in life brought to marble sculptures. 

Groggy and his brain still a half asleep haze, he felt as if he were still in a dream. So often in dreams when he was vaguely aware of the lack of reality, he threw all care and critical thought to the wind; it never mattered there, where no consequences existed. No motive or want was ever questioned in his dreams, and neither here, Stiles decided without any input whatsoever from his brain, as he dragged his tongue up along Derek’s neck, to lap greedily under his jawline. 

And Derek, Derek, he was holding him all the tighter, his calming, hushing motions turning into grasping, groping movements, touching a little more of him each time. His breath was growing ragged, hot on Stile’s neck as he nuzzled into his shoulder.

His eyes were finally adjusting, he broke away to breath, holding Derek in his open mouthed gaze. All lines were crossed too long ago to care for them any longer, he thought.

But then Derek threw him off like a heavy blanket in the middle of summer, pushing himself to the edge.

“Derek?” he tried to ask, timid in the dark, so suddenly feeling as if he were alone. 

Derek did not move, lying stiffly on his side with his back to Stiles. Though the pillow wall had been knocked aside, the stony silence had replaced it, cold and ten feet high. 

Minutes passed awake in the darkness. He could hear his father snoring down the hall, the ticking of a clock, a dog barking two neighborhoods over, Derek’s breath beside him.

And he can’t figure out for the life of him how to speak to Derek.

**Author's Note:**

> please please please comment comment comment!!!
> 
> they are my sustenance and motivation (but mostly my motivation)


End file.
